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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25564042">Vinculum</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stjosten/pseuds/Stjosten'>Stjosten</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>All For The Game - Nora Sakavic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, POV Alternating, Psychic Bond, Street fighting, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Very vague mentions of past abuse, slightest touch of angst, very vague mentions of mental health struggles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 12:41:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,217</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25564042</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stjosten/pseuds/Stjosten</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It is an unbreakable bond. One that keeps them both tethered.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>294</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Vinculum</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Vinculum<br/>a connecting band of tissue, such as that attaching a flexor tendon to the bone of a finger or toe.</p><p>a horizontal line drawn over a group of terms in a mathematical expression to indicate that they are to be operated on as a single entity by the preceding or following operator.</p><p>mid 17th century (in the sense ‘bond, tie’): from Latin, literally ‘bond’, from vincire ‘bind’.</p><p>There are very vague mentions of past abuse and past sexual assault. It is so very, very vague but I want you to know that it is there.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Andrew Minyard wakes up on January nineteenth with a headache and a craving for a Hostess Sno Ball. Aaron is sleeping. Nicky is sleeping. The winters in South Carolina are nothing but whispers of cold winds but the window in his bedroom is cracked in one corner. The cold air seeps in like an unwelcome touch against Andrew’s bare skin. </p><p>It’s a Saturday, and Saturdays are reserved for cage fighting. Andrew still has bruises from last weekend, yellow patches of skin across the right side of his face and a split lip that is still attempting to heal. Mending skin is thick from scabbing and itches around the edges. Andrew tries not to pick at the bubbles of dried blood.</p><p>It’s early. Too early to be awake on a Saturday, on a fight day, on a cold January day, but he is awake.</p><p>For some reason he <em>really</em> wants a Sno Ball. </p><p>Andrew dresses and leaves the house as quietly as possible, hoping not to wake Aaron or Nicky, hoping to keep a low profile until they inevitably wake with the afternoon sun. </p><p>The gas station near the apartment is empty except for the two cars parked by the gas pumps. The inside smells like lysol and the bright lights of the cooler aggravates his growing headache. </p><p>He grabs a bottle of root beer and a can of off brand energy drink. He stops by the Hostess stand, looks over the selection, grabs a Sno Ball and squeezes it in his hand before going to the counter. </p><p>The man looks him over. Looks at him curiously, eyes lingering on the healing skin around his eye and lip. </p><p>“Smokes?” The man asks. Andrew nods. </p><p>A pack of marlboro reds joins the rest of his junk on the counter. Andrew thinks about getting another Sno Ball. He doesn’t even know why he wants one in the first place. He turns around to grab another. He thinks he sees something. Or <em>someone</em>. A flash of red in the reflection of the coolers, a flash of a dark sweater with the hoodie down. Andrew blinks and it’s gone. </p><p>He grabs another Sno Ball and throws it on the counter. </p><p>“Rough night?” The attendant asks. </p><p>Andrew shrugs. </p><p>**</p><p>Somewhere in Arizona, in the middle of the Sonoran Desert, outside of Tucson, Neil Josten woke up on January nineteenth with a headache and a craving for a Hostess Sno Ball. </p><p>He has never had a Hostess Sno Ball before. He doesn’t know how he knows what it’s called, doesn’t understand why he thinks he wants one when he doesn’t even know what it tastes like. He’s living in someone’s shed. A small dark space with no furnishings other than a small black blanket that he has nestled in the far corner, pressed against the wall facing the door. </p><p>Neil doesn’t know what compels him to get up. He pulls on his tattered black sweatshirt and pulls the hood up to cover the curl of red hair. There is no threat anymore. No need to hide, but old habits die hard. </p><p>The convenience store is an uncomfortably long walk but Neil takes it anyway. It’s five am. Early. Too early to be awake, too early to be craving something that he has never eaten before. The desert is much cooler in the early morning hours, the sun still starting to blink awake on the horizon. </p><p>The attendant gives him a twice over. Neil pulls down the hood of his sweater and tries his best to smile and look innocent. The attendant turns away. </p><p>He grabs a large water bottle from the coolers in the back, he knocks his knuckles on the cold glass as he passes. There is a Hostess stand by the front of the store. He looks up at the attendant and for a second he sees something. Someone. A flash of blonde hair and a firm set of shoulders. He blinks. It’s gone. </p><p>Neil grabs a Sno Ball from the stand and squeezes it in his hand. He grabs another just to be safe. </p><p>“Smokes?” The attendant asks. Neil feels like he’s having deja-vu.</p><p>“No,” Neil says. The attendant shrugs and rings him out without a second word. </p><p>He sits on the curb in front of the gas station. Unwraps one Sno Ball for himself and unwraps the other to put down on the curb beside him, keeping it nestled in the plastic cover so that it doesn’t pick up any stray filth.</p><p>“Happy Birthday,” Neil says to no one. He takes a bite. </p><p>It tastes like bland marshmallows and dry cake. He swallows but throws the rest in the trash can behind him. He leaves the other on the curb and wonders if his mother has ever eaten a Sno Ball before. </p><p>**</p><p>Andrew is twenty-three and counting. His birthday is in November. It is not for a very long time, yet he feels like he does whenever his birthday rolls around. Unsettled, nervous, tense, the muscles in his shoulder contracting. He thinks he’s being followed. Keeps seeing ghosts over his shoulder. It’s nothing. There is no one.</p><p>Tonight’s fight is swarming with onlookers and fools ready to make a bet. Renee is with him. Calm and quiet as she always is before a fight. Her dark eyes follow him as he paces across the small back room.</p><p>“Are you ready?” She asks.</p><p>“Always.” </p><p>The basement of Eden’s is packed to the brim and smells like iron and sweat. Andrew keeps his head down. He doesn’t flinch when Renee puts a hand against his back. He welcomes the touch like a tether. Knows that it’s a familiar set of firm small hands rather than something more sinister. </p><p>He steps into the ring. The crowd cheers. </p><p>His opponent is a fresh face. Six foot three at most. He towers over Andrew like a skyscraper next to a light post. His hands are in tight fists. Andrew watches him carefully, calculating. Renee leans over the make-shit barrier. </p><p>“Stay low,” Renee says in his ear, “He’s top heavy. He won’t be able to keep up.” </p><p>Andrew is not as fast as other fighters, but he thinks he can try and keep up anyway. The fight MC announces the start of the match, he throws a yellow flag down to the floor for good measure.</p><p>Andrew keeps himself low, allows his opponent to take swinging shots and miss, his body throwing him from one side of the ring to the other like a pinball. Andrew watches him, keeps his hands tucked close to his face. Waits for an opening.</p><p>He blinks and doesn’t see the ring anymore. He sees the inside of a dark shed. Sees chipping paint on rusty colored walls. Andrew shakes his head. Sees the ring in front of him. Sees his opponent coming towards him.</p><p>A flash of red. </p><p>Andrew realizes that he woke up this morning, on this Saturday feeling out of sorts, with a headache that still hasn’t gone away, craving a Sno Ball, for one particular reason. </p><p>In the center of the ring, right between Andrew and his opponent, is someone. He looks blurry around the edges. Andrew blinks, once and then twice. He doesn’t go away. </p><p>Time slows down. </p><p>The <em>someone</em> in front of him looks just as startled. His blue eyes are wide and focused only on Andrew. He looks scared, confused, shocked. Andrew has a strange feeling of <em>something</em> curl in his chest. Protection, loyalty, fear, <em>recognition.</em></p><p>Andrew <em>knows</em> him but doesn’t know him. <em>Sees</em> him but doesn’t really see him. If he blinks he might see what the other one sees. If he bites his tongue he thinks that the boy might taste his blood. </p><p>Renee yells his name. </p><p>Andrew has been frozen in the center ring for too long. His opponent is like an incoming train, fast, large, relentless. One good hit is all it would take to knock Andrew straight out of consciousness. </p><p>The stranger disappears right as his opponent connects his fist with Andrew’s face. Andrew sees white, red, yellow, green, black, and then nothing. </p><p>**</p><p>On Sunday, January twentieth Neil wakes up and his face feels like it has been beaten black and blue. He feels like he might have blood dripping down from invisible cuts under his eyes. Neil presses a hand to the soft skin of his cheek. He feels nothing. </p><p>There is a knock on the door.</p><p>“Yes,” Neil croaks. He sits up and watches Anna, the woman whose shed he has been sleeping in, step inside. </p><p>“I hate to do this to you,” She starts. Neil cringes. “But we need you to move out by the end of the day.” </p><p>There is no need for an explanation it seems. Neil nods. </p><p>“Okay,” He says, “Thank you for letting me stay.” </p><p>“You’re welcome,” Anna replies, “Be sure to clean up before you go.” </p><p>She leaves again. </p><p>The door shuts and the sound makes his head split straight down the middle. </p><p>**</p><p>Andrew wakes up on January twentieth in Renee’s apartment. It is much nicer than his own. Renee cleans and meticulously cares for every inch of space. She places decorations where there ought to be decorations, has matching chairs for her couch, and has a matching couch for rug.</p><p>Andrew wakes up with a splitting headache and an overwhelming sense of dread. It is almost noon. Nicky and Aaron would be looking for him by now. Maybe they wouldn’t. Aaron was set to return to school in less than a week. Nicky was planning to go back to Germany in two. They must know that Andrew needs space. Andrew always needs space. </p><p>Renee walks into the living room in nothing but a black lacy bra and a pair of boxing shorts. </p><p>“Coffee?” She asks. </p><p>Andrew watches the way the cross around her neck sparkles. </p><p>“Coffee.” </p><p>They sit by the large bay window in her kitchen. Andrew watches strangers pass on the sidewalk below. Renee hands him a coffee that’s light enough to match the color of his skin. </p><p>“Do you want to talk about what happened last night?” Renee asks. She always <em>asks</em>.</p><p>“What is there to say?” </p><p>Andrew never loses a fight. He was on a winning streak. It took a hallucination to take that away from him. </p><p>“You looked scared.” </p><p>Andrew looks up at Renee over the rim of his coffee mug. A coffee mug that is bright blue and shaped like a cat. </p><p>“I wasn’t,” Andrew says, “He didn’t scare me.”</p><p>“Then what did?” </p><p>Andrew doesn’t answer. </p><p>He isn’t sure he knows what scared him anyway. </p><p>**</p><p>Neil leaves the Sonoran Desert with nothing but a duffel bag and the clothes on his back. He’s out of money. Out of ideas. Out of luck. Sometimes he pretends that his mother is still alive. He listens for her voice to echo around the dark cavern of space inside his head. She sounds angry. She’s always angry. </p><p>Neil sits at the bus stop and fiddles with the long, frayed string of his hoodie. He wraps it around his finger tighter and tighter until the tip is a violent shade of purple. He untagles the web and starts again. </p><p>There is a bus that he can take to Flagstaff. From Flagstaff he can get to Albuquerque. He might like New Mexico. He’s never been, but he’s heard that the desert is just as dry as Arizona. </p><p>He buys a ticket with what little money he has left. On the bus he goes through every single money order that his mother left him. He only has four hundred thousand left. It doesn’t feel like enough. </p><p>Neil presses his face against the glass of the window and watches the Sonoran desert disappear into the distance. When he licks his lips it tastes like coffee.</p><p>**</p><p>Aaron leaves for school. Nicky leaves a week later. Andrew is alone again. </p><p>There is a new line of bruises on his rib cage. He pokes and prods at them in front of the bathroom mirror, he taps his fingers against the damaged skin. It doesn’t hurt. </p><p>He looks down to wash his hands and looks back up, only to find he isn’t seeing himself in the mirror anymore. He’s looking in a reflective window. A wispy looking city bustling in the background. </p><p>The face that looks back at him is familiar. Even in the dirty reflection he can make out blue eyes and curled auburn hair. He reaches out and touches the glass. It’s warm. </p><p>“What the fuck,” Andrew says. The face doesn’t move. </p><p>“Hello?” </p><p>Andrew turns to look over his shoulder. It feels like he’s being watched. Like he isn’t alone in his small apartment. Like someone is following him. </p><p>The voice wasn’t his but it was close enough that it sounded like it was in his ear. </p><p>He looks back at the mirror and his reflection is his own again.</p><p>**</p><p>Neil makes it to Albuquerque and gets a job at a small cafe in the center of the city. His FBI handler calls him to check in. Neil lies and tells him that he’s still in Arizona. </p><p>He feels weird. Feels like he’s standing over an edge looking down into the pits of the Grand Canyon. His stomach swoops painfully in the middle of the day. He doesn’t know what it means. </p><p>Albuquerque is not as friendly as the dingy town outside of Tuscan. He has to find an apartment and pay actual money to live there. The only thing in his price range is a studio that has a bathroom without a door. Neil pulls his black blanket out of his duffel bag and lays it in the corner furthest away from the door. </p><p>He doesn’t sleep the first night or the second. </p><p>Neil does his laundry at the laundromat on his day off. He watches his clothes in the glass window as they spin round and round and round. He blinks. </p><p>When he opens his eyes he is in a bar. It’s dark and overwhelmingly hot. He can taste liquor on his lips and suddenly it feels like hands are running up and down his legs and back and-</p><p>Neil opens his eyes and tries to catch his breath. The washing machine beeps loudly when it’s finished the cycle. He stands up and switches it over. </p><p>**</p><p>On February twentieth Andrew wakes up and wants to go for a run. He doesn’t know where the urge comes from. He dresses in loose fitting sweatpants and an old jersey the color of sunset orange. He runs until his legs feel like giving out. The cold air feels like knives against his cheeks. </p><p>Andrew showers when he gets back to his apartment. He doesn’t wipe the steam off the mirror, he lets it hide any phantom reflection that isn’t his own. </p><p>In the kitchen he pulls out frozen waffles and throws them in the toaster oven. He leans against the counter, waits for them to finish, let’s himself think. </p><p>There was a possibility that he was getting worse instead of better. He thought that having an outlet would soothe the ghost of anxiety and memories of unwanted touches. He thought that fighting would help him let out the overflowing anger that settled in his chest. </p><p>It could be nothing. The hallucinations could be from lack of sleep. They could be from too many hits in the head in the center of a ring. They could be-</p><p>The toaster pops and his waffles shoot up and then fall back into their slots. Andrew doesn’t jump, because it didn’t startle him. He doesn’t bother with a plate or a fork. He grabs the waffles from the toaster and leans against his counter as he picks them apart. </p><p>He will drive himself crazy if he thinks too much. It is probably nothing. </p><p>**</p><p>Neil wakes up on February twentieth and runs until his lungs are as tight as the laces on his sneakers. He gets back to his apartment and showers in the bathroom without a door and then stands in his kitchen when he realizes that he has nothing to eat. </p><p>He wants waffles.</p><p>Neil grabs his keys and his duffel bag and leaves the apartment behind him. There is a corner store just two blocks away. He walks there and ignores any stares sent in his direction. </p><p>In the store he grabs a package of frozen waffles and then another because he feels like he should. The attendant doesn’t ask if he wants a pack of cigarettes. For some reason it makes Neil miss Arizona. </p><p>He doesn’t bother warming up the waffles when he gets back. He eats them cold and soggy right in the middle of his kitchen. He feels like he’s been rubbed raw, like someone has taken sandpaper to his skin and rubbed and rubbed until he was a bloody mess. </p><p>Neil throws away both packages of waffles. He didn’t really want them anyway. </p><p>**</p><p>Andrew finds himself in the center of the ring again on March Second, but this time he wins. Renee hands him water and a rag to clean up the bloody mess on his face. He may have won but he had taken enough hits, that his face felt like a raw mess of cuts and bruises. </p><p>Renee leaves the small backroom, likely to gather their winnings. Andrew doesn’t watch her go. He stays seated on the foldable chair in the center of the room. </p><p>Slowly he removed the wrappings around his fingers and fists. He lets the stained red material fall to the ground in waves. </p><p>He lets out a sigh, rubs his hands clean with the cloth. The color darkens from blood. </p><p>When Andrew looks up he sees the same stranger standing in the center of the room. He’s looking around with clear confusion on his face. He doesn’t settle on Andrew, too preoccupied mapping out his surroundings for much else.</p><p>The moment those blue, blue, blue eyes lock on Andrew’s he feels like a lock clicking open inside his chest. Andrew blinks. He doesn’t disappear. </p><p>“Hello,” The stranger says. Andrew thinks he knows his name. Hears it like a whisper in the back of his mind.</p><p>“Hey,” Andrew says back. </p><p>The stranger steps forward and looks over the bloody mess of broken skin over Andrew’s knuckles. He reaches out. Andrew doesn’t pull away. </p><p>A ghost of a touch, so gentle that it could be mistaken as a passing breeze, wraps around Andrew’s hands. He watches the stranger’s thin fingers wrap like a blanket around his palms. </p><p>“What happened?” </p><p>“A fight,” Andrew says. </p><p>“Like last time?” </p><p>Andrew contemplates telling him nothing. He says, “What’s your name?” </p><p>“Neil. What’s yours?” </p><p>“Andrew.”</p><p>“So you’re real then?” Neil says.</p><p>“I would think so.” </p><p>“Can you prove it?” </p><p>“How would I prove it?” Andrew asks. </p><p>Neil opens his mouth but the door opens and suddenly Andrew is no longer alone. Renee steps in, gives Andrew a concerned look and closes the door. </p><p>Neil blinks out of existence. </p><p><em>A hallucination then</em>. </p><p>“What are the signs of serious brain damage?” Andrew asks. </p><p>Renee scowls. “Do you think you have serious brain damage?” </p><p>Andrew doesn’t know anymore. </p><p>He finishes cleaning his cuts and says nothing. </p><p>**</p><p>Neil wakes up on March third with an aching feeling in his knuckles that is somehow mirrored by the feeling set deep in his chest. </p><p>He blinks away the listless feeling behind his eyes, pretends that his apartment is not sweltering hot, and then showers in the bathroom without a door. </p><p>The mirror is fogged when he steps out. He wipes away the condensation and blinks rapidly at his reflection. </p><p>It does not change. </p><p>He wonders if he is going crazy. Maybe he has spent far too much time alone. Before this he had his mother. Now he has nothing. No one.</p><p><em>Andrew</em>. </p><p>It must be a figment of Neil’s imagination, a way for him to cope with the pocket deep loneliness he feels all the way down to his bones. There was no other explanation for the strange visions of a stranger, one that could not possibly exist in the real world. </p><p>Neil walks to work and tries not to think too much. He goes through a five hour shift and tries not to think too much. He walks back to his empty apartment and tries not to think too much. </p><p>Loneliness is a dangerous feeling, because it leads to other types of feelings. Longing, hope, desire, <em>wanting</em>. Neil has wanted things before. He never got any of them. </p><p>Neil lays on his black blanket with his back pressed against the far wall of his apartment. He breaths in and out, he blinks rapidly and tries to keep his thoughts straight. </p><p>He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t think he will ever sleep again. </p><p>**</p><p>Andrew wakes up on March fifteenth and immediately knows that something is different. He feels queasy, his stomach knots and twists itself around until it feels like a painful lump under his skin. He paces around his apartment. He calls Aaron. He calls Nicky. He tries to eat. He throws it out. He tries again. </p><p>By three in the afternoon he is paranoid. The walls feel like they’re whispering to him. He feels the phantom of unwanted touches from so many years ago. He tries to punch the frustration out of him and into the speed ball he keeps in the corner of his room. </p><p>It doesn’t work. </p><p>He goes into the bathroom and locks the door. He splashes water over his face. He does it again. </p><p>When he looks up he doesn’t see his reflection. </p><p>Neil looks back at him.</p><p>Andrew turns. </p><p>He’s standing in an empty one bedroom apartment. There is a black blanket laid out in the corner of the room. Neil is standing in a small bathroom that doesn’t have a door. He’s wearing a pair of running shorts and is practically swimming in his light blue sweater.</p><p>“Hello,” Neil says. </p><p>“Hi,” Andrew replies. </p><p>They stare and stare and stare. </p><p>“I think I might be crazy,” Neil says. </p><p>Andrew snorts. “I’ve been thinking I hit my head.” </p><p>“I have an idea,” Neil replies, “To prove if we are crazy or not.” </p><p>Andrew decides to amuse him. “Fine.” </p><p>Neil grabs his duffel bag, doesn’t bother putting on real pants, and leaves the apartment. Somehow Andrew is able to follow him. </p><p>They walk quietly to a small convenience store. Andrew sees a New Mexico business certificate hanging behind the counter. He wonders why his subconscious chose a state he has never visited before.</p><p>Neil goes to the front counter and buys a burner phone with cash. The attendant hands it over, takes his money, counts it twice, gives Neil a receipt. </p><p>Andrew follows him out of the store again. </p><p>“What’s your number?” Neil asks in a whisper. No one even spares them a glance. </p><p>Andrew tells him. Neil dials. Andrew’s phone rings. </p><p>The noise is enough to startle him back to his own apartment. He’s standing in the bathroom with the door locked. His own reflection looks back at him. </p><p>His cell phone is currently vibrating against the edge of the sink, threatening to fall. He grabs it and picks it up. </p><p>“Holy shit,” Neil says immediately. Somehow Andrew hears him in two places at once. </p><p>“Yeah,” Andrew replies. He stares at his reflection in the mirror, his hand wrapped around his cell phone so tightly that his knuckles are turning white. “Holy shit.” </p><p>**</p><p>Neil wakes up on March fifteenth and wonders why the universe is so strangely cruel to him. He goes to sleep thinking the same thing. </p><p>On March sixteenth he sends Andrew a text. Andrew sends one back. </p><p>On March seventeenth he catches sight of Andrew in the mirror in his bathroom. He doesn’t flinch away. </p><p>On March nineteenth he spends an entire day in Andrew’s apartment. They talk. They touch each other’s hands. They wonder how it’s possible. </p><p>On March twentieth Neil wakes up to Andrew lying next to him. </p><p>On March twenty-first Neil decides he doesn’t hate this. Even if it’s just his imagination. </p><p>On March twenty-second he kisses Andrew’s knuckles before his fight. Andrew’s eyes are full of awe. </p><p>On March thirtieth he doesn’t feel as lonely. </p><p>**</p><p>There are very few things that Andrew likes about himself. If someone asked he wouldn’t be able to admit even one of those things out loud. </p><p>On April first Andrew wakes up and suddenly craves closeness. Intimacy. Comfort. </p><p>He can’t stop himself from immediately seeing Neil when he thinks about those things. Things that he <em>wants</em>, things that he can suddenly have.</p><p>Neil appears with nothing more than a thought. Andrew does not care if this is a part of his imagination, if he’s created a fictitious person to share his mind with. He likes the company. He likes companionship. He likes being known. </p><p>Neil slowly unravels like a ball of twine. He’s loud when he wants to be. He talks quickly when he’s excited and he gets excited often. Andrew watches him fall apart and then come together into a full person right in front of him. It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful. </p><p>Today Andrew wants to be gentle. Neil lets him run his fingers through his hair. He lets Andrew gently press his fingers against his cheek. He lets Andrew hold his hand. </p><p>There is one thing that Andrew likes about himself. It hits him like a punch to the face in the middle of a boxing ring. </p><p>Neil. </p><p>**</p><p>On April twenty-second Neil and Andrew wake up without a headache. There is no phantom pain. There are no ghosts lingering in dark corners. No nightmarish traps that could send them over the edge. </p><p>They simply exist. For once they exist without any strings attached. </p><p>Neil let’s himself relax. Andrew let’s himself feel. </p><p>They’re healing.</p><p>**</p><p>Neil receives a call from his FBI handler on May thirteenth. They know that he is no longer in Arizona. They want to know why he lied. Neil tries to talk his way out of it. It doesn’t work. They tell him that they can’t keep him safe if he doesn’t tell them where he is. They threaten to move him, threaten to tighten the reins on his witness protection. Neil feels like they’re putting him on a leash. He does the only thing he knows how to do.</p><p>He runs. </p><p>**</p><p>Andrew goes three weeks without seeing Neil in more than a parting glance. He sees him out of the corner of his eye in the convenience store. Sees him for a split second on any reflective surface. Sees him when he first blinks himself awake in the morning.</p><p>He should have known better. Neil has turned from a solid to a liquid and slipped through Andrew’s fingers faster than he could manage to make a fist. </p><p>He should have known better. </p><p>Summers in South Carolina are sweltering beasts. They boil like hot rage and flush his skin angry shades of red. Andrew stays inside. </p><p>He fights because he doesn’t think he knows how to stop. He drinks because he doesn’t think he has anything left to do. </p><p>Nicky calls. Andrew ignores him. Aaron calls. Andrew ignores him. He feels like an old t-shirt in a washing machine, tumbling, tumbling, tumbling. Feels like a dried up flower. Feels like he’s been tied up at his ankles and left to try and break himself free.</p><p>He should have <em>known better</em>.</p><p>Nothing good stays forever. Nothing good lasts for more than a fleeting moment. </p><p>Andrew decides to keep going anyway. </p><p>**</p><p>On July seventh Andrew wakes up with a headache and a craving for a Hostess Sno Ball. Nicky is sleeping. Aaron is sleeping. He doesn’t know what forces him out of his bed, the bruises from last night's fight are painfully tight. He can’t even manage to blink without cringing. </p><p>He changes and leaves his house as quietly as possibly, unwilling to accidentally wake up the sleeping occupants.</p><p>The gas station near his apartment is empty. There is only one car parked by a gas pump in the parking lot. The inside smells like lysol and gasoline. The lights from the coolers are dangerously bright.</p><p>The attendant gives him a knowing look. He looks over Andrew’s bruises and then shakes his head as if he’s disappointed. Andrew almost offers to give him a matching set. </p><p>He knocks his knuckles against the cold glass door as he passes. He thinks about getting a root beer. Debates getting an off brand energy drink. He settles on water. </p><p>He walks up to the Hostess stand only to find that the Sno Balls are out of stock. He sighs. He thinks about his craving. He decides to grab a packet of Ho Ho’s. He knows it won’t be the same.</p><p>“Smokes?” The attendant asks. Andrew drops his belongings onto the counter. He debates grabbing a second package. </p><p>“Yeah,” Andrew mumbles. He turns around, grabs a second Ho Ho from the shelf, throws it down on the counter with his collection of junk food. </p><p>“Rough night?” The attendant asks. </p><p><em>Rough life.</em> </p><p>“Something like that,” Andrew says. </p><p>“You know,” The attendant says, “My son liked to get into fights when he was your age.” He slowly rings up Andrew’s packages, as if he has all of the time in the world. “I signed him up for boxing lessons.” </p><p>Andrew wants to ask him his point, wants to tell him to mind his own business. </p><p>He says, “Did it work?” </p><p>“Sure did,” The attendant says. He finishes the order and then takes Andrew’s money. “He boxes professionally now.” </p><p>“Good for him,” Andrew mumbles. The attendant sighs and hands him back his change. </p><p>“Don’t give up on yourself so easily,” The attendant offers, “You owe yourself at least that much.”</p><p>Andrew grabs his purchase and leaves. </p><p>South Carolina summers are unbearably hot, but the sun hasn’t fully risen yet and the cool night air lingers like a soft blanket. </p><p>Andrew sits on the curb and unwraps one of the Ho Ho’s for himself. He unwraps the second and places it on the ground beside him, nestled in it’s own wrapper for safe keeping. </p><p>He takes a bite and it tastes like bland cream and dry cake. He swallows it anyway. He takes another. </p><p>“I think Sno Balls are better.” </p><p>Andrew turns and Neil is standing next to him. Not so blurry around the edges as Andrew once remembered him.</p><p>Andrew blinks once and then twice. Neil doesn’t disappear. </p><p>Anger is familiar. Resentment is not. </p><p>“Isn’t this a pleasant surprise,” Andrew says. </p><p>Neil drops a Sno Ball into his lap. Andrew blinks. </p><p>“What-?” </p><p>“I thought maybe South Carolina would be a nice change of pace,” Neil offers. He picks up Andrew’s second package of Ho Ho’s. He sits down on the curb beside Andrew. He takes a bite. </p><p>“Gross,” Neil says. He’s smiling. </p><p>“You’re not really here.” </p><p>“I am,” Neil says, “Surprise.” </p><p>Andrew discards the Ho Ho and grabs the Sno Ball from his lap. He unwraps it, takes a bite. </p><p><em>Much better.</em> </p><p>“I’ll take an explanation now,” Andrew says. </p><p>Neil sighs.</p><p>“I guess I should start from the beginning. It’s a very long story.” </p><p>Andrew doesn’t think that time really means anything anymore.</p><p>“We have all the time in the world.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Here is another whirlwind fic that I really can't explain other than I blacked out and suddenly this had been written. </p><p>This is very different from the works I usually post. Somehow the writing style turned out to be a complete change from what I usually put out into the world. Hopefully it isn't as off-putting as I fear it may be. </p><p>I left everything very vague but this is somehow a sense8 au without being a sense8 au. I guess I just really love the mortifying ordeal of being known completely and whole heartedly by someone. </p><p>As always I did not edit or reread this because I am chaos incarnate.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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